


coldnumbquietempty (the ringing in my ears gets violent)

by ybcpatrick



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Bathtubs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Gentle touches, M/M, Mental Health Issues, emotional breakdowns, ioh era, nothing is specified though pete is just kinda sad, patrick helps how he can, sad fluffy stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 04:22:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18024605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ybcpatrick/pseuds/ybcpatrick
Summary: Pete is so caught up in the quiet, the sudden presence of noise is startling. It isn't loud by a usual standard; in fact, it's soft, and gentle, and well-meaning. The slow, slow twist of the knob on the bathroom door is so minute, but in the still of the bathroom, it may as well have been a siren, or a crash.





	coldnumbquietempty (the ringing in my ears gets violent)

**Author's Note:**

> i've been sitting on this for a while, honestly. it's just been haunting my notes for a bit. i'm not having that great a go, lately, so due to subject matter, i guess it was time to put this in it's sunday best and ship it off to church, or [insert other good analogy for posting this here].
> 
> enjoy :)

The silence of the bathroom deafens him. Even the incessant drip drip dripping of the sink faucet has decided to be quiet for a night, and its absence only makes way for the ringing of his ears and the thunderstorms of his thoughts. The cold porcelain of the bathtub saps his warmth through his sweater. It leaves him shivering, and that's the only thing Pete thinks he's felt for a few— well, however long he's been awake.

That ringing slowly fades out. (Somebody once told him that when his ears rung, it meant somebody was talking about him. Pete supposes they must have stopped. Good on them; they’ve got to have better things to do.) Slowly, it's overtaken with that filler sound, the white noise the brain creates in moments of absolute quiet. It's unsettling, yet comforting, and Pete feels the bathtub's surface shift behind him as his back slides along it, down, down until he's hit a new space where the porcelain is still freezing. His eyes burn as he stares ahead into the tunnel his deadened gaze has created, the cold and numb and quiet swallowing him up into its unforgiving grasp.

Pete is so caught up in the quiet, the sudden presence of noise is startling. It isn't loud by a usual standard; in fact, it's soft, and gentle, and well-meaning. The slow, slow twist of the knob on the bathroom door is so minute, but in the still of the bathroom, it may as well have been a siren, or a crash. Pete feels his body tense, but his mind bears no reaction to the sound, as he can't be bothered.

The doorknob is followed by slow, near-silent creaking, and then measured, bare footsteps on tile, and then the shuffling of fabric rubbing against itself as another body enters his cold bathtub. They're warm like sunlight shining in patches through a window, and they slot themselves against him akin to the way of a puzzle piece. The porcelain's cold isn't as harsh.

"Hey," says Patrick. Pete doesn't open his eyes.

Patrick's fingers are in his hair, combing through his tangled, greasy bangs. The ministrations are so careful, and gentle, and Pete wonders why Patrick's even bothering to try. In the still and silent, Patrick must hear him think.

"...You deserve to be treated well, Pete," Patrick says, "and I know you don't believe that right now, but it's true." Pete can't process his words, all too loud and harsh on his ears. Patrick's hands leave his hair, ghosting down his temples to his cheeks. They rest there, and Patrick's thumbs smooth over his brows, then his eyelids. With every ounce of willpower he can muster, Pete forces his eyes open.

The corner of Patrick's lip lilts upwards when Pete makes eye contact, and he swipes the pads of his thumbs along Pete's under-eyes. (Somewhere, far off in the back of his mind, Pete wonders if his eyeliner is still okay after that. But, then he remembers it's probably smudged and runny anyways.) Patrick's hands are so, so warm. He brushes his knuckles along Pete's cheekbone before cradling his head in both hands. Softly, sweetly, he presses a ghost of a kiss to the corner of Pete’s mouth. (Somewhere in the numb husk he feels he is right now, Pete feels that all-too familiar twinge of adoration for Patrick. It’s too distant for comfort.)

"I'm gonna fill up the tub and wash your hair for you, but I need you to help me get your stuff off, okay?" Patrick asks, his voice a breath above a whisper. When Pete shrinks back, almost imperceptibly, Patrick adds “I’ll wash mine with you, and then after we’ll go to bed.” It takes a lot of Pete's strength to nod, but he manages, and Patrick's smile grows a little bit when he does. (Pete figures that if he can keep making Patrick smile, that will be good enough.)

Carefully, patiently, Patrick tugs at the hem of Pete's sweater. Pete raises his arms, shrugging his way out with Patrick's help. Patrick manages to take his tank top with it, too, and the ever-frozen porcelain makes his nerves jump when he leans back once again. Patrick unbuttons his own shirt quickly, then wads up both of their clothes and dumps them over the side of the tub.

"Thank you, Pete." Patrick murmurs. "I need you to take your own jeans off now, okay?" Pete doesn't respond, but shuffles up to shove his skinny jeans down his legs. He bunches them in his hands and pushes them over the rim of the tub. They land with a dull thud, and Patrick smiles at him again, squeezing his knee. "Thank you," he says again. Pete sighs and tucks his knees into his chest.

Patrick stands up for just a second, stepping out of the tub as he does. Carefully, he shimmies his sweats off, and turns the water on. The cold water splashes up to Pete’s toes, and Patrick winces sheepishly.

“Sorry,” he mutters, “should’ve warned you.” The water doesn’t take long to heat up, and Patrick plugs the drain quickly before slipping back in across from Pete and crossing his legs. The water gradually begins to surround them,drawing the chill from Pete’s feet. He watches the edge of the water creep upwards, transfixed; Patrick only watches him.

The water’s just up to Pete’s shins when Patrick takes the little plastic cup on the side of the tub and dunks it under. He fills it up to the very top, and gently rests his other hand on the crook between Pete’s shoulder and neck.

“I’m gonna pour this on top of your head now, so you have to close your eyes, yeah?” Patrick asks. Pete complies, letting his eyelids flutter shut. The pleasantly hot water cascades from the top of his head down his face and neck, and Pete sighs, the numb and cold and awful falling away like crumbling clay. Patrick ruffles his hair, pausing to fill the cup again. His touch is so light, yet it grounds Pete, and he feels his shoulders slump as all the tension he held melts away. Patrick pours the water over him again, gently scratching at Pete’s scalp.

Pete opens his eyes and watches as Patrick tips the newly refilled cup over his own head. He gathers his long, fluffy hair as best he can over one shoulder, dumping more water over the ends particularly. Patrick glances up and catches Pete staring; he offers Pete a small smile, and Pete sees nothing but love and concern in his eyes. He tries to return it, but he assumes it ends up as more of a grimace, because the corners of Patrick’s mouth turn downwards, and he hurriedly pours one more cup-full onto his head before reaching for the shampoo.

The shampoo is Patrick’s, strawberry scented, and Patrick drizzles a generous amount into his palm. He lathers it up, some sliding away from him and dripping into the bath. Then, as though he were approaching a startled animal, Patrick reaches his hands up, up and sets them on Pete’s head. Tenderly, he begins to smooth the product over his hair, scrubbing lightly. His movements are deft as he lathers up Pete’s hair, paying special attention to his bangs as he slicks them back, away from his forehead.

“I poured the last of my old conditioner into this, so this’ll make your hair all soft and stuff once it’s dry,” Patrick rambles, massaging the product in thoroughly. Pete doesn’t respond to him, but Patrick learned a while ago that that doesn’t mean he isn’t listening. He takes it as a cue to keep going, talking about anything and everything while he moves on to his own hair. Pete tracks his quick movements with his eyes, hypnotized.

Patrick doesn't spend nearly as long on his own hair as he did Pete's, and before long he’s turned his focus back to Pete. He lifts the cup slowly,

Pete finds himself oddly overwhelmed by everything. The cold and numb and quiet and harsh and empty empty empty seem to be growing farther away by the moment. Tendrils of serene steam curl up from the hot water surrounding them, having now filled up nearly all the way. That warmth. Patrick’s caring touch, the scent of the shampoo, the love... it washes over him like a wave and Pete squeezes his eyes shut against his, his throat constricting. Patrick slows, sweeping his thumbs over his temples lovingly. That small gesture alone causes the dam to overflow, and Pete chokes on a soft sob, hunching forwards and letting his legs drop.

Patrick’s hands are soap free and on his back in an instant, pulling Pete in close so he can hug him tightly. Now that Pete’s started to cry, he can’t stop, and he curls as far as he can into Patrick’s arms. He doesn’t even know what he’s crying about, but Patrick doesn’t seem to mind as he rubs Pete’s back gently, whispering words into his ear that he can’t quite make out.

Pete knows that in a while, his tears will stop. The bath water will go cool, and Patrick will coax him into rising, drying off, maybe even brushing his teeth before they settle into the bed. The warm will follow with Patrick, and he'll envelop Pete in it, making him know for certain that he is loved. Pete May even fall asleep with a smile ghosting on his lips.

In this moment, though, Pete lets himself crumble, his nameless sorrow breaking off and slipping into the water to join the cold, numb, quiet, empty pieces already mixed in. Patrick kisses the side of Pete's head, the closest place he can reach, and he murmurs something else that Pete can't properly hear. It sounds like "I love you", and Pete summons the ability to sniffle, wipe at his nose with a wet arm, and breathe it back against Patrick's skin.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, i'm on tumblr @ybcpatrick


End file.
